Dressed in Black
by CricketScribbles
Summary: Owen Grady disappeared with highly classified military weapon intel known as The Echo Project. Now, it's Agent Claire Dearing's job to track him down and retrieve the weapon at all costs. Yet somehow, she finds herself in bed with Owen Grady. And when he lets slip that one vital piece of information Claire has been looking for, her loyalties soon begin to align with his.
1. Chapter 1

It was three in the morning when Claire got her first glimpse of Owen Grady. Ink black shadows lingered on the outskirts of the wan piss-yellow light from the gas station. Humidity had long since pasted Claire's clothes to her skin, sweat pooling in her black leather gloves. But she remained vigilant, unmoving from her position.

 _Be careful with this one, Agent Dearing,_ Mills had said.

Claire didn't need to be told to watch her back. Working at MI-6, she made more than her fair share of enemies. And if she let Owen slip through her fingers tonight, she would have yet another name to add to that long list of people who would be all too willing to put a bullet in her brain.

The rumble of a motorcycle's engine caught Claire's attention. Seconds later, Owen came into view and pulled to a stop. He had no helmet, but a baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, shielding most of his face from view. He wore a flannel button up shirt, sleeves rolled back to the elbow, with black jeans and boots caked in dried, flaking mud. A dark shadow of stubble spread across his jawline.

He was a far cry from the picture Claire had seen in his file—clean shaven, crisp white Navy uniform stretched tight across his broad shoulders. But she had been in this job long enough to recognize the symptoms of a man on the run—haunted, skittish, and tense.

Owen bypassed the gas pump and headed into the gas station instead. Claire watched as he wandered the aisles, grabbed a bag of peanuts, two packages of beef jerky, then disappeared to the refrigerated section and out of her line of sight.

Claire was on the move. She slid out of her car and drew her pistol from beneath the driver's seat. Her boots barely made a whisking noise on the pavement as she screwed the silencer into place on the muzzle of her pistol.

The back door of the gas station was locked. She had seen to that already. The only way Owen Grady was getting out alive would be to go through her. And she had no intention of allowing him to escape.

Claire slipped in the door and gestured to get the clerk's attention. He was a scrawny teenager with a chronically sleepy expression permanently fixed in place. She flashed her MI-6 badge and jerked her thumb at the door. The clerk's eyes widened a fraction of an inch and he nodded, scrambling out the door.

Claire crept along the aisles, pistol at the ready. With Owen's military background, he had proven to be a tough target to take out, staying off the grid, never spending more than two days in one place. But her objective wasn't him. It was the weapon he had stolen.

 _What sort of weapon?_ Claire had asked when she received the file, almost entirely redacted into blackness.

There wasn't much information for her to work with apart from the bare essentials and she hated being kept in the dark.

 _I'm afraid that's classified,_ Mills had replied.

The only clear directive of her mission was that Owen's life didn't matter in this case. It was the intel he carried, the prototype of a weapon far above her paygrade.

For all Claire knew, she could be walking into an ambush.

One aisle remained.

Her grip tightened on the pistol and her finger caressed the trigger. She stepped forward, gun raised and steady.

Nothing.

A deafening clang of metal thundered in the back of the gas station.

"No, no, no," Claire hissed. " _Shit!"_

She darted to the back of the gas station. The door hung lopsided on its hinges and the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine purred to life once again.

Throwing caution to the wind, Claire broke into an all-out run and skidded into the road, blocking Owen's path.

He dropped one foot to the ground, his boot heel sliding on the pavement. He revved the engine with a threatening growl.

In answer, Claire aimed her pistol at him. She had him in her sights and she was not about to back down.

Owen revved the engine again—final warning. The squeal of tires screeched in the silence. Then he was barreling straight for her.

Claire fired. Once, twice, three times.

Owen swerved, nearly laying his bike flat on its side, before he managed to right it again and blew past her.

Claire strode to her car, tossed the pistol on the seat beside her. She knew she hadn't missed him. Owen wouldn't risk seeking out medical attention, but a gunshot wound would slow him down, tipping the cards in Claire's favor.

As Claire turned to leave the parking lot, she noticed a lump on the ground where Owen's motorcycle had been. She pulled up beside it, opened her door and picked it up.

A t-shirt. One of the tacky tourist ones on a rack inside the gas station. A pink palm tree was imprinted on the front, wearing sunglasses and a cartoon grin.

Definitely not something a man like Owen Grady would wear. Besides, it would hardly fit him.

The shirt was a child's medium.


	2. Chapter 2

Owen's shoulder was on fire.

He didn't dare stop until he reached the safe house. It took him twice as long as usual to cover his tracks. He could barely use his left arm, his fingers were going numb, and he was light headed and fuzzy from blood loss.

As Owen stumbled in the door, a small wide-eyed face peered back at him from a pile of blankets on the ratty couch in the corner of the apartment.

"Maisie," Owen rasped. "I need you to go to your room. Stay quiet and stay out of sight. And leave your light off."

Maisie nodded once, gathered up her pile of blankets and vanished down the hallway. Owen gritted his teeth and moved to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink for support as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He probably had less than five minutes before he was out like a light.

Owen rummaged around under the sink until he found a first aid kit and tossed it on the counter. He tore at the buttons of his shirt, fingers too slick with blood to take the time to unbutton properly.

Gingerly, he peeled his shirt open to see a neat bullet hole in his left shoulder. Missed his heart by the miracle of an inch. And no exit wound either.

Owen groaned. "This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch."

He stripped off his belt and clamped it between his teeth. He wedged himself between the sink's counter and the wall for support as he flicked his knife from his back pocket. The blade hovered just above the red pulpy mess of blood, muscle, and tissue. Owen closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and pressed the blade into the bullet hole.

His hand started to shake and he gripped the knife's handle a little tighter. His knees buckled, pitching him forward over the counter, his forehead nearly touching the mirror to maintain his balance. A strangled noise tore from his throat as he forced the blade deeper.

There.

A scrape of metal against metal. He'd found the bullet.

Owen adjusted his grip on the knife's handle. His vision pulsed black around the edges and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

The bullet popped free and pinged into the sink, leaving a thread of crimson trailing behind where it rolled around and finally came to a stop.

Owen spat out his belt, leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Owen woke to a feather-light touch on his arm. His eyes fluttered open to see Maisie staring back at him, her eyes wide with concern and fear.

"You're not dead," she whispered with a tiny smile of relief.

Owen raised his hand to brush a lock of hair away from the corner of her mouth with his knuckle.

"Promised I'd stick with you, didn't I?" he croaked.

She looked so small and young. How could people like Claire Dearing be blind to the fact that Maisie was a kid, for god's sake? She wasn't a killing machine.

Maisie's fingers spidered up Owen's arm. Only then did he realize that his shoulder had been bandaged and he knew he hadn't been conscious long enough to do it himself.

Owen glanced down to see his chest and shoulder wrapped tightly in gauze.

"You patched me up?" he said.

Maisie shrugged. "The bleeding had slowed down but it wasn't stopping. I tried to wake you but I couldn't."

Owen hooked an arm around Maisie's shoulder and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He drew her tight against his side and she huddled closer, her head on his good shoulder.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he whispered against her hair.

Maisie didn't respond for a minute or two. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

"Is it my fault that you got hurt?" she whispered.

Owen reared back to look at her. "What?"

Maisie kept her gaze on the floor, tracing the faded patterns in the linoleum.

"Because the bad men want to take me back," she said. "They want to make me a monster."

Owen cupped Maisie's chin in his palm and tilted her head up to look at him.

"I won't let that happen," he said. "I promise. They won't get anywhere near you again as long as I'm around, all right?"

Maisie nodded. Owen held her chin for three seconds more, looking her in the eye to drive home that he meant every word he said.

Then he released her and reached into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a package of gummy dinosaurs—the only thing that had survived his sprint from the gas station. He'd dropped everything else to get away.

"Now," he said. "Are you hungry? Can I interest you in some breakfast?"

He tore the bag open and offered it to Maisie. She selected a purple T-rex and popped it in her mouth.

It wasn't the life Owen wanted for her. Sitting on the grungy bathroom floor, blood stains on his clothes, a mangled bullet in the sink.

One day, he hoped he could take Maisie out for a huge stack of pancakes, soaked in butter and maple syrup, until she couldn't eat another bite.

One day, he hoped she didn't have to see the effects of blood and violence, the fate she was destined to ever since she was born.


End file.
